Doesn't Stop There
by SilverHandwriting
Summary: After the events of Equilibrium, Preston is taken in by the Resistance after he chooses to take Prozium even though he is free to feel. After a misguided attempt at escape, he realises that life did not take the intended direction as he thought. Now his worst enemy finally has him at his mercy, it's going to take a lot more than Gun-Kata to save him and Libria now.
1. Chapter 1

Doesn't Stop There

John Preston hoped there was a trace of Prozium left in Libria, even though the Revolution had overthrown the oppressive society and destroyed the factories. He couldn't live like this anymore, continually traumatised by the memories of the dead that had suffered at the hands of this dictatorship – his wife; Mary; those innocent puppies; Partridge. They even haunted his dreams. For the first time in his life, Preston was desperate for even the smallest bit of Prozium.

Prozium would be a protective bubble, softening the pain that he felt every day and every night. People would think he couldn't move on if all he just did was live emotionless, not fully experiencing life and choosing the easy way out. Well, he felt he couldn't move on from this point if all he did was shield himself in the daytime and cry himself to sleep at night. It wasn't the easy way out – it was his only option left and he knew it would be worth sacrificing his emotions for not just peace, but also normality.  
Preston wondered if he'd got any left in his holder. He knew he'd always left a couple of bottles in there just in case, but it was empty. In fact, there wasn't a single bottle left  
in his apartment, after even resorting to raiding his children's drawers. The sad thing was he had to be able to hide this because Prozium had only a temporary effect.

He literally felt desperate for Prozium, feeling like he was going to die if he didn't have a dose. As there wasn't any left in his apartment, he had to look outside if he was to find any. Reluctantly – he had hoped he didn't have to go outside to find some – he slipped out at night, without waking his children up. Hopefully, they wouldn't have to wait long, so he could try and get back before they woke up.

When he got outside, he sprinted towards the nearest abandoned factory, thinking (to be honest, more like hoping) that there was a part of it that the Resistance had missed. Even though he was still wearing his uniform, the air was freezing, yet still, without a single movement. Everything seemed gripped in this frozen silence and due to the pitch darkness, he couldn't see properly. He stood there for a minute, feeling not only lost physically, but also psychologically. Fortunately, he had brought two guns for protection, both fully loaded.

He walked until he reached some kind of wall, feeling his way across – he wanted this wall to at least have an end so this wouldn't look like a game. If it was, he didn't want to play it.

With a breath of relief, he managed to find a wooden door, which he gave a nudge. It was quite a creaky old wooden door, which swung open on the pressure of one of his gloved hands. At that moment, he made sure he was carrying both of his guns, stepping up onto the stone floor as the wooden door slammed behind him. In the pitch darkness, he could hear movement. As he walked forward to sense it, he suddenly felt his entire body shaking. Within seconds, he heard a click and a light flashed on, and with an arm extended he fired in its direction…and missed.

It wasn't long enough to come to terms with this strange feeling that he had missed, as before long an instant excruciating pain in his stomach sent both of his guns flying straight towards the ground with a clatter. The pure shock of it sent him reeling backwards a few paces, his palm raised in horror after touching his stomach and discovering his glove was glistening with blood – his blood. From this fact he felt sick and collapsed against the wall, his eyes swimming with hot tears. The pain burnt his insides like hellfire, his bleeding body lying vulnerable and pathetic – his jacket and his gloves were now drenched and his mouth was filled with blood. The only expression he wore was one of agony, and the only thing he could think besides the physical pain, was the pain of disgrace as he realised that he used to be a Cleric, trained in the art of Gun Kata and now here he was, with an immediate hunger for suppressing his pain and emotion, reflexes having failed and the fact he was lying in a pool of his own blood gave him the feeling of degradation and humiliation and the sudden unworthiness of his own life. He was so dedicated to that, that now his mind was unable to focus properly due to the inability of adapting his skills to the real world after the Revolution.

"Not very clever – do you even have any reflexes?" a familiar voice taunted, "I bet you've even forgotten your training."

As much as Preston was extremely hurt by the comments, he couldn't help but agree, his body shifting weakly in a manner that reflected the affirmative. Of course, it didn't help that the figure that slowly approached him, as he managed to force his head up to look, was Jürgen, having painfully realised that he had turned into something much more malevolent. Yet, he seemed to know his strengths and weaknesses better than he did himself, so he had to give him that.

"Since we knew what had happened to you, you would easily come here. Also, if you didn't know, this isn't even a factory. This is just an abandoned warehouse. We destroyed every single factory, so no Prozium for you."

Preston started to become more aware of his breathing, a slow, pained sensation that rose in his chest. He could see Jürgen kneeling down beside him, his face now a symbol of arrogance. It hurt him to look at someone who had helped him during the Revolution, the now cold steely eyes patronising him. His choked sobs turned his breathing uneven and shallow, such the focus was on his breathing that the effort he put into it just to stay alive didn't leave him with enough energy to do much else, especially considering he was trying to stop himself bleeding everywhere. If he did talk, it was agonising just to talk normally.

His eyes began a slow blink as he forced himself to shift against the uncomfortable wall. "Don't you remember," he whispered, "don't you remember I saved your whole team from the furnaces? You could have died. Freedom was what you wanted, what with the beauty of human nature. But this is our one chance to live normally." He barely had much breath left to finish all of that.

Jürgen's face darkened and he drew closer to Preston. "We were born with emotions, we will die with emotions. You in fact believed that having emotions was important, and we helped you, and in turn, you helped us. Why should we have it back, the way it was before? You know, I still respect you for helping us. If it wasn't for you, the Revolution wouldn't have happened."

Preston's eyes widened, realising how much they knew about him from the beginning. He seemed like the only choice since the Resistance told him they had been watching him, the fact that he was the only one having suffered from nightmares, being able to feel every single fear inducing and emotional moment. It was like this was planned from the beginning. But it was brilliant. Besides the fact that Jürgen had turned on him like that, he admired his bravery in trusting someone like him. He wanted Preston to believe in him. He felt respected.

However, this didn't stop him from achieving his goal. He didn't want to feel, no matter what Jürgen would say. If only he had the energy to get up – his only form of defence was lying a few yards away from him.

"Can I be sure to trust you anymore?" Preston asked, bringing Jürgen's attention to the weapons lying on the floor.

"If you want to," he replied calmly, picking himself up, "It's just that, since you have no real power here, I doubt not trusting the Resistance wouldn't be a very good idea." He grabbed both of the guns, swapping them for his other one and putting his one in his trouser pocket. "Don't worry, I still trust you. Seeing as you helped us, maybe it would be a good time to help us instead of being selfish."

Preston wasn't sure what he wanted to do anymore. He didn't know whether to trust Jürgen. Trusting his instincts or someone who actually respected him. All Jürgen was trying to do was to create a society where people could express their emotions freely without anyone interfering. Maybe he was that person. And previously, he had helped to conquer the dictatorship that so readily interfered with human nature.

"I'll trust you." He said. Preston suddenly felt scared. He didn't know whether he genuinely trusted Jürgen or whether he was just faking it so as to stop the pain and not end up violently murdered.

Jürgen grinned. He had finally been able to convince him back to his own team. "I knew you were being ridiculous." He leaned down over the bloodied Preston, who was now white as a sheet and completely drained of energy. Every breath looked like his last.

"Is he dead?" cried out a voice from a side entrance. Jürgen turned around and faced a number of Resistance members. "No, thankfully not. But he's bleeding heavily. I had only planned to shoot him to avoid such a massive confrontation, but now that he's down, I want you to take him back to the Underground."

Each of the members came running over, all armed with pistols. They all knew what they were doing. And they were perfectly aware that they couldn't let Preston go.  
Jürgen kneeled down and broke both of Preston's legs with two bullets, to the response of agonised screams that rung with nightmarish sobbing. Preston was in the worst pain imaginable, the ripping of bullets through his legs as blood spilt out, burning and scorching the only chance of being able to escape. Completely unable to move, his breathing becoming extremely shallow, managing to whisper one final thing.

"Just…see that my children are okay." He knew that whatever happened, his children had to be okay. Whatever happened to him, as long as they were happy, everything was fine. He didn't want them to be upset. He would hope to finally be able to reassure them that he loved them and that wouldn't change if he didn't die right now. Even if he did manage to get some Prozium, it wouldn't stop him from becoming concerned with their welfare.

"Don't worry, they will be." Jürgen managed to quickly mutter as Preston's voice faded with each word, as his eyes blurred with tears and he lie there, drenched in blood. His eyes closed, slowly, his world evaporated around him, the last thing that he remembered was being picked up softly in the Resistance's arms, body limp and pale and covered in crimson, sounds of footsteps echoing in the warehouse as his world fell to black.

"Come on," Jürgen said, "We haven't got all the time in the world."

"Let's hope that he won't die in our arms. He's bleeding very heavily." One of the Resistance members said, named Harriet. She was hoping that it wouldn't happen because Preston was a vital member of the Resistance anyway. And what better way than to be someone highly trained?

Jürgen realised what Preston had said earlier. "Can you just carry on without me? I've got something to attend to first." They carried on, without a word.

He walked into the main entrance, deliberately stepping in the pooling blood, opening the door and stepping into the freezing air. Seeing his bloody shoeprints marked out on the concrete, the blood spilling out of the warehouse and dripping down the steps. He was enjoying this. Preston didn't know what he was up to. But he trusted and respected him. Nothing could be better than this. It was black outside and completely silent, except from a dim sliver of light of the moon from behind a cloud. Nobody knew how loud his thoughts were, he felt like screaming. He had finally done it. Preston would not see what was coming.

"I know it sounded stupid Preston how you looked so ridiculous when you spoke to me," he said, his eyes lit up with ecstasy, "but it was perfect. I do trust you, I still do. But this is the moment I've been waiting for. And I always knew it. Just enjoy what happens next." He looked up at the grey stone buildings that housed everyone, windows dotted around, some lit up and some dark. "Don't worry children. Your father will be perfectly okay. Just let me take care of you."

He made his way leisurely towards the buildings as in his mind; everything was going according to plan. And somewhere in the distance, a light had been switched on, two children's frightened voices crying out for their father as all they heard was complete and utter silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter II – Doesn't Stop There (Equilibrium Fan-Fiction)

A loud bang of thunder interrupted a melodic thud of rain on the window. John suddenly bolted upright in throbbing agony in the gloom. He had a blurry sense of direction, the dreamlike state of body and mind not even improved upon by such white pain. Even the cold air did not stop him from sweating profusely, his gelled jet black hair now in a crumpled mess of tangles spread across his head.

He could sense something was wrong, a scent of something more recognisable. He wasn't anywhere new, and there – a taste of blood. It was horrible and metallic, triggering a pounding headache brought on by the realisation of the presence of the stuff that was bleeding from him. His eyes were heavy, and the sickening feeling in his stomach was strong enough to turn into crimson coloured nausea. It was immediate that he was in his bedroom, and the speechless shock was enough to numb how physically crippled he was.

"Robbie?" he called out, despairingly, "Lisa?" They were only the few people in the world that he had left, and his reaction had an edge to it which rung of the moment that he felt when he walked out of the Halls of Destruction, his implosive behaviour exploding outside on the steps. It was apt, considering how many people he had lost already.

It was strange, because he felt at the same time a sense of relief. He was still in the same place, still with that avenging streak in his half dead body. Except he was still crying, as he hadn't the same energy as before – he looked pathetic, but his determined lack of trust that he couldn't remember submissively contradicting by trusting Jürgen was probably lost on most people. Before the Revolution, emotions were punishable by death, yet he managed to survive with a lack of trust that grew on him so much it was difficult to hide it. Fortunately, it helped that cold revenge and weaponry were a good combination and his style.

"That's easy for you to say."

A voice that now sounded uncaring and deceitful echoed from the shadows, reminiscent of his entrance earlier – which made it sound all the more chilling. John could hear his voice, but yet Jürgen refused to show his face. If he could shoot him, he would, but his gloved hands touched nothing but bed sheets.

"When you had your weapons, you thought you were some kind of God. But revenge without weaponry is useless – see, the kind of statement you have been living by means you have turned into something much easier to destroy."

John turned away from him, his face painting the sheets with blood. "I was a figure of authority – people were scared of me. The only reason it worked was because I had the inside knowledge!"

"You were a mess without us, John. What happened to your collective conscience?"

"You wouldn't have survived without me!" John sat up, his body reacting stiffly to such a sudden movement (as well as reacting to such condescension), more excruciating than he thought it would be, "you lived in the Underground, yet your movement never seemed to surface until I got here! All you did was watch me until you'd realised I'd noticed!"

John watched him appear from the shadows, Jürgen's face dark and more threatening than before. "You never give in, do you? You told me earlier about your trust in us, and we saved the world. You saved us, but you don't seem to be happy, do you?"

"For once, I just want a peaceful life. You took what hope I had, and destroyed it. How can I live by it?" John's face had lost that determined look, however much he tried, the pain in his face and the shaking reflection of vulnerability in his voice representing that of a puppy.

Whatever glimpse of hope or happiness was in Jürgen's face, it had been scrapped. "I have every right to kill you right now," he said, "but I'm not going to. You are in both positively determined and pathetic, so you are in no need of killing."

"Don't think you are fighting a battle, John, because you aren't. You were selfish enough to make one up for your own needs. It's an equivalent of me saying that you should give up on a battle that you pretend exists."

John could feel the condescension, but he was all the more fighting. "It sounds like a battle. You're pushing me away from something I want to do, and creating your own idea that I'm in the wrong. You're telling me to surrender."

"No," Jürgen said, with sudden impact, "surrendering is more dramatic. I said give up. Whatever you're asking for is a dream that is too far away to imagine and is not worth the trouble."

There was a light tug on his shoulder. His bleary eyes swept over the darkness to see Robbie, his dark brown hair shining in the light of the streetlight outside. The emotion John showed was subtle because of how tired he was, but Robbie could see how vivid it was through his eyes.

"Where's Lisa?" He asked, half-asleep. He was genuinely tired from sleepless nights, rather than having been given another sedative. Guess they realised there was no point in giving it to someone who was too exhausted.

But the light fell on nothing. He was alone, and Robbie had disappeared as fast as he had got there.

He sat up and he could swear he heard a familiar voice in the darkness. "You're just a pawn, John," it said, "a prisoner, a victim, any way you look at it. Don't even try to fight back, because you won't win."

Within moments, he could feel himself put back to sleep as a sedative suddenly entered into his veins.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter III – Doesn't Stop There (Equilibrium Fan-Fiction)

The blood ran down his face, his jacket, his trousers. It was spattered everywhere, as he decimated whole groups of Resistance members. He didn't realise the strength that he had, as if his mind had been playing tricks on him. His body lacked the injuries that he possessed before, feeling the skill and agility as he managed to shoot two members at close range at once.

He had no idea where he was going, but he kept running. Kept killing, kept going. He had a horrible feeling inside, but the overpowering control of his movements kept going. It was like a poison, as if there was more to it than he thought.

His vision began to shift hazily in front of him, and as much as he wanted to stop, the idea of being overpowered again terrified him. He had already killed plenty of the Resistance members, with some of them screaming from him to stop.

As he reached the blinding, cold light of the sun outside, it hit him like a brick. Not just the outside world, breathing in the refreshing air where for so much at a time, he had been imprisoned indoors. But the poison was more than metaphorical, and he finally crumpled to the ground, powerless, sobbing. It was so excruciating that for every movement he made, he wished he was dead.

As if part of a dream, hopeful that he was still back at his apartment. Whoever was left may have dragged him back and imprisoning him much more harshly to prevent another rampage. At least he could sleep.

Much of his body was numb as he awoke with a grimace. Harsh light echoed on the four walls, but it was almost as if he wasn't surprised that it had come down to this.

"Preston," an unnerving voice called out, "I see you've pleasantly woken up."

It had been longer than he'd thought when he was called by his last name. That's what unnerved him. John, yes, Dad, by his children, but Preston? Only the people who worked with him or for ever called him that.

When he saw the voice, it was almost as if he was about to pass out. Doubt clouded his mind, but fear choked his throat. Or should I say, physical restraints choked him simultaneously, with one even dangerously threaded close to his neck.

"Don't look so scared," DuPont said, "as if I were you, I could just as well tighten what's around your neck. You probably want a more dignified death, though. Selfish to be honest – why should you get a better death than the rest of us?"

Even without the physical touch, John's body was nervous, desperately tugging against the restraints in hope of relief and freedom. He had been taunted by DuPont before, but that was when he had as much control and power as his opponent or more.

"You woke up from your own nightmare – going back on yourself after the Revolution and searching for the one thing that you had freed yourself from: the ability to feel. And yet you were judged and taken down. You noticed how much chaos feeling could be. Your friends didn't trust you as much as you'd hoped-"

"Friends?" John cried, "There was no such thing as friends before the Revolution! I still as much hope that I thought that, because of what you'd done. My life is still a nightmare, and life is abounding with chaos. Somebody like you ought to know!"

"Preston, there has been no Revolution. You were too dumb to understand since I'm still here," DuPont remarked, patronisingly, "since how would I know that assassination would spark revolution?"

John felt his body tense up, DuPont's expression something both of sarcasm and power. He felt the sly smirk burn him in a suffocating manner. After the simple infiltration that had been discovered, DuPont had to witness his guards and officials get mowed down by him. If this was some kind of set-up, John knew it sounded ridiculous. But who was the one restrained to a table, and who was the one standing over them?

"It was a set-up, wasn't it?" John felt his skin prickle with sweat.

"Ridiculous," DuPont sighed, "you're trying to change the subject."

"What you must understand is that all you perceived were my weaknesses when you walked through that door, yet not my strengths. You were agitated, but I could see you had the skill in hiding it. I had the mercy to let you live. The reality of it was that I shot you as soon as you walked in. What was the point in just sitting there if I could torture you with mercy?"

The quote from last night echoed in John's head. Although it wasn't last night, because last night only existed in his mind. His vivid thoughts only seemed to be reinforced by DuPont's words, which overpowered him. DuPont was the poison, and his reality was his nightmare, and his nightmare was reality.

"There's no shame in this, Preston. I haven't planned on killing you. But seeing as where you have landed in reality, you need to understand the consequences. You thought this game was easy – you manage to infiltrate my office and assassinate me. But that's not going to happen, as the mercy I am showing you is turning you back into the emotionless drone you always were – safe, quiet and tranquil."

Although his nightmare showed him asking for the drug, taken down by his friends because of his selfishness, it left John without rational behaviour or reason to argue the opposite. The manipulation wouldn't leave him alone.

He let out tears that were useless, forcing him to breathe. He was letting out emotion, since the regime wouldn't let him go. Why didn't they just kill him? DuPont slammed the door behind him, leaving his torturous words to sink in their bare fangs.

"Emotion is only chaos for the minority," he said, as he left the Palace of Justice, "at least Preston should have been able to realise that he wasn't at all part of the majority. Selfishness itself is simply chaos."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter IV – Doesn't Stop There (Equilibrium Fan-Fiction)

John's feet stepped cleanly on the polished floor of DuPont's office, the revelation of sweepers past the wooden doors that he had just brutally murdered. He could feel the adrenaline through him, even now, his heart was beating fast. This anger rose, as the immediate decorative layout of this office almost drove him wild. The composure was hard enough to maintain as both his two worst enemies looked at with a cruel smirk.

The more he walked forward; he wondered how this was going to work. He could barely swallow his feelings – mouth dry and his situation felt all the more enclosed. He was surprised that he actually made it here.

John slipped forward, not in full concentration of his surroundings. He had lost himself, and if he lost himself any more, he would be burnt along with everyone else.

It was through no fault of his own. No provoked attack.

He was bleeding. He swallowed back fear and pain, watching as DuPont sat motionless at his desk, a pistol in his hand.

"Do you like how it feels, Preston?" he smirked, putting the pistol back on his desk, "If you simply did what you were told, there wouldn't be such things as war and murder. You said so yourself."

The taunting never seemed to end with DuPont. It made John feel worse about himself. But as much as he wanted to kill him, he wanted to shoot Brandt in his goddamned stupid face, because he was just as smug as watching someone he disliked in front of him suffer.

John was now at eye level with the desk, seeing his vision stumble in front of him. Another bullet sent him reeling to the ground, blood seeping across the floor and his scream of agony through the air.

"See? It's never fun when you're at the wrong end of something. The second time, you're not going to be as lucky." DuPont was by this time really enjoying it, finally being able to foil an assassination attempt. He seemed too pleased with himself. What was he planning on doing with John when he was sent falling to unconsciousness?

That was no problem. Brandt took care of that the second time for him, kicking him straight in the face.

It was only a matter of time when they would take better precautions with John around. It was a shame it was harder to escape the fact that he had been truly imprisoned within Libria's walls. What about his children? What had they done to his children?

"Can you at least tell me if anything's happened to them?" He asked, impatiently. DuPont was sitting in a chair at a corner of the room, staring at his hands.

"It's you who should have taken the precaution of putting them forward instead of staging an uprising." He said, not entirely interested in everything that John had to say. He had a hard enough time being the leader of Libria. "But, nonetheless, we discovered that both of them weren't taking their interval anymore. And I'm guessing it's because of what happened to your wife."

John immediately felt pangs of both despair and anger. The thought now that everything about him had been exposed of which he had no idea how that had happened had made him feel worthless. He wished he was somewhere else, at least with his children.

"How did you come to know this?" he asked, not expecting that particular answer that DuPont had come up with.

"How did you think? We interrogate people like you all the time." DuPont replied, as if it wasn't such a big deal.

"I have no single memory of that happening." John was terrified at what was about to come next.

"Ah, that must have been the memory wipe."

John had no idea that Libria had access to or even had that kind of thing around. But he was strangely calm and unsurprised, because they could do basically anything and no one would care. He did, but it never seemed to make much of a difference.

He never thought he'd be sitting in that particular chair, like when he interrogated Mary, but sat where she sat before. It triggered plenty of unwanted memories, which is exactly what the interrogators wanted.

"Exact same room that Mary was in. In fact, you're sitting in the same chair as her." One of them said. It didn't seem to make a difference which one he was talking to, because they all looked the same. All three of them in Cleric uniform with black hair and scarily similar features. It was like they were all clones. Wait, scratch that, he thought. They're _all _clones.

It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer. He looked at them with his black eyes, which, though remnant of a black, soulless pit, had more emotion that should have betrayed him earlier, but didn't.

"Where are your children? I expect at school, being obedient and doing as they're told."

"Yes, that's exactly what they're doing."

"That's not what I heard."

Their monotone voices grated in the metallic room but his shining black eyes looked up with as much despair as anger as he managed to make out those five particular words.

"They're what you would expect. Robbie is a prestigious young man aspiring to be a Cleric, and Lisa is at the top of her class. What more could you want?"

It sounded convincing in his head, but if the interrogation goes on like this, his hope was fading. That question meant something, and it wasn't just a statement.

"Tell us, have your children been taking their interval?"

And that was question that he was dreading. Saying yes would mean he was lying and that there was some truth that they knew that he was. Saying no would reinforce that follow-up statement and put him into immediate danger. He didn't know how to answer it.

Within a minute he had decided if he could face off all three of them. The pain was still throbbing, but there were only three of them. Within three minutes he had broken both arms of the one facing him, swiped a gun from the one on the left and shot the one on the right in the leg twice.

He then turned to the one he took the gun from and shot him twice as he slid down the wall. Slowly, he had managed to gain control of the situation, breathing heavily because he could still feel the pain throbbing, aching against his sides but not in any position to drop dead.

His next question was, where does he go from here? How would he escape? The door was right there, but what was he going to do? There were guards armed to the teeth, but was he in any position to take them on? Would he go get his children, or would that alert attention? Where else was he supposed to go?

He took his chances and ran home, the streets populated with people. He forced himself to keep running until he was up the stairs, along the corridor and into his room. The room was deathly quiet and he could hear his own heartbeat and his breathing rate was far too loud to not be heard. He dived into his room and closed the door. He didn't know what to think, he couldn't think, time was running out and he couldn't sit here on wasted thoughts while people were after him. But his senses were tangled and his mind a mess. He slumped against the door, trying to swallow back the crying feeling in his throat. His heart was beating so loudly it made him feel ill, and he couldn't think of anything to slow it down.

He heard voices down the corridor, feeling the anticipation of arrest. He was tired; strangely he didn't seem to have the energy to go for fight or flight. The voices got closer and there was nowhere to hide.

"I wonder how Dad was since I last saw him. I haven't heard more about the Revolution since he was gone."

He stopped, and slowly opened the door. School had finished and his children had arrived just as he did, causing him to breathe a huge sigh of relief. There they were, a few feet away from him at the dining room table, looking up simultaneously when they heard him.

"Am I glad to see you two," he said, "I thought you were somebody else."

"So am I," Robbie chorused, "I haven't seen you since you left after I discovered your intervals behind the mirror."

He wondered if this was it. Finally allowed peace and left him alone. It was only hope, though. And somehow, he was going to make it come true for once.

Footsteps almost made him have a heart attack, and they were much louder. Steel on marble, like his shoes. Robbie and Lisa started too, looking around to where the sound came from, and it twisted inside him that he could almost feel their pulse from the looks in their faces.

What his worst nightmare was feeling vulnerable in front of authority, but he didn't want it like that. If he was scared, anything but that.

"Well, if this isn't so perfect," a grating, sarcastic voice echoed, "then I don't know what is."

It wasn't just Brandt he'd seen come in. His eyes didn't move a muscle, but there was plenty of surprise haunting him inside. A slight choking sound came out of his mouth, but he stood up with dignity. About four or five sweepers had already aimed their guns at him, and he let out a tired grimace.

"It's someone like you that keeps running away," Brandt said with a taunt that sounded similar to DuPont's, "degrading isn't it?"

John eyed the sweepers behind him with a slight smile that actually expressed sadness rather than amusement. He would have enjoyed it, had he had the upper hand.

"I prefer to say that I'm running from something, rather than away," he said, thinking of something clever to say, "it makes it sound better."

Brandt did not say anything and with a surprising turn of events, punched him in the face.

Robbie and Lisa almost jumped out of their chairs, frozen and blinking. Lisa was swallowing her tears back, waiting for her father to get up and do something.

"If you stopped running away I wouldn't have to keep doing this," he said through gritted teeth as John lay stunned from the sudden blow, "but you leave me no choice."

He brandished a knife and dug it into John's left arm, the burning pain that was bleeding through his body not managing to escape through his mouth. It tore like a flaming sword through not only his skin, but the tender muscles that left it limp and stinging. Brandt held it there as torture as John had hardly enough breath to say anything. Blood shone without tarnishing the blade which glimmered in the sunlight as he brought it out of the wound. It spilled slowly across the floor, the deep cut staining John's white uniform bright red.

Robbie's face was slightly stained with tears, his heart thumping against his chest. His father had unexpectedly been overpowered, but he couldn't do anything but glance at the sweepers who were now completely aware of the suspicious behaviour. Lisa was already overwhelmed with emotion, screaming at him to stop.

"Well, it shows – children always take after their parents. _Both of them_. But you don't even know how to control them." Brandt spat, his words dripping with malice.

The dark tone crashed through all three of its intended recipients, showing even more agony than a stab wound.

"I'd advise you to take both of the children – considering these two; things would get a little out of hand." Brandt emphasised, dropping to the ground. The sweepers responded with metallic affirmatives.

"And you," he said condescendingly, both literally and metaphorically, "why don't you consider this lesson learned?"

John could feel himself fading, the stab wound buzzing with an activity of chemicals that filled his mind. He felt a throbbing pain all over his body as it sent him sickeningly reeling to unconsciousness.


End file.
